The ugliest doll in the shop.

(How a doll from 1984 taught me a lesson last week.)

I walked along the aisle, staring intently at box after box. Peeking at me through each cellophane window was a hopeful face that quietly implored, “Me! Me! Choose me!”

I was as stressed out as an eight year old could be, torn between the one with blue eyes and blonde pigtails and the one with brown hair, dimples and green eyes. I could not believe this day had come. I was going to become a Mommy!

This was serious business. Cabbage Patch Kids were not simply dolls, you know. They were orphanswho needed mommies (orphans grown in a cabbage patch, which was slightly weird, but details…) and I felt the full weight of this immense responsibility on my little shoulders.

How was I going to choose the right one? Oh, the agony of indecision. There were endless choices and combinations – dimples on one cheek or both, blonde hair in a ponytail or pigtails. Green, grey or blue eyes. This would be a decision of epic proportions.

Having narrowed my choice down to pretty blonde and cute-as-a-button brunette, I decided to walk another lap and clear my mind.

That’s when I saw The One.

On the bottom row, in a slightly dented box – that had, frankly, seen better days – was the most pitiful Cabbage Patch Kid imaginable. Instead of a frilly pink dress, this doll wore an insipid brown track suit. A woollen beanie slipped down the poor Cabbage Patch Kid’s face, so only it’s mouth was visible. On it’s feet were the ugliest, plainest not-quite-white shoes ever designed. Ever.

“That one.” I pointed at the box.

My mother looked, bewildered, as her eyes followed my outstretched finger. Why on earth would her little girl want to buy what had to have been the least appealing doll in the shop?

“Are you sure, Mishy?”, she tentatively asked.

I solemnly nodded. I was sure. I carefully carried the box to the counter, serious about this ceremonial ritual that would transport me across the bridge to early motherhood.

As she paid, my mother asked, “What made you choose this baby, Mishy?”

With tears glistening at the corners of my eyes, I explained, “They’re orphans! This is the ugliest one of all… if I didn’t adopt her, she’d be all alone in the orphanage FOREVER!”

Oh, it was a sacrifice, I can tell you. I was not happy. I had really, really, REALLY wanted a Cabbage Patch Kid in a party dress and fancy shoes, but my conscience just wouldn’t let me. I wouldn’t have been able to leave that pathetic orphaned doll behind. It makes me smile to know that I was a softie, even then – rallying behind the underdog (plastic and inanimate as she may have been).

We didn’t even wait to get home before I was ripping open the box to properly meet my ‘daughter’. I’d successfully shifted my thinking and put aside thoughts of dolls in pretty party dresses. Now, I was desperate to take off her hat and discover whether she was a blonde, brunette or maybe even a redhead. In the toy shop’s car park, I opened the long-awaited package. Tossing the box aside, I blissfully squeezed my new baby to my chest and breathed in that signature Cabbage Patch Kid scent. Then I reached for the beanie and yanked it off.

Sharp inhale. Squeak. Gulp. Gasp.

My. Daughter. Was. Bald.

Choking back a sob and inwardly grieving the hours of hairdressing I had instantaneously lost, I looked my bald baby in the eyes. I resolved there and then that I was her Mother and that I was going to love her no matter what. That’s the deal with motherhood, after all, isn’t it? Unconditional love.

The magical time had now arrived. It was time to learn her name. I had watched the ads on TV where pretty little girls had opened up their Cabbage Patch Kids’ birth certificates and gleefully announced that they were mothers to Veronica Janine! Shirley Francine! Marjorie Violet! With clammy fingers, I carefully opened the envelope and retrieved the extremely official-looking birth certificate. My eyes slowly scanned the information.

No!

It could not be!

My daughter was, in fact, my son. I was now mother toa boy.

“Unconditional love…unconditional love…” I repeated my mantra to love my baby no matter what. I WOULD unconditionally love my son, …what was his name? I continued to read.

Really? REALLY? With respect, Xavier Roberts, when you designed Cabbage Patch Kids, you seriously decided that there was a kid out there who was going to be insanely happy to be the mother ofa bald boy named Horace Cleeves? H O R A C E.

This was a moral crossroads in my young life. Eight year old Michelle had to make the call.

Horace Cleeves and I sat together, eyes locked, sunlight glaring off his powder-scented bald pate. I took in the hideous shoes, diahroea-coloured tracksuit, lack of dimples, brown eyes and hard plastic where memories of hairdressing moments were supposed to be made.

My heart melted. I loved him.

Horace, my bald, brown-eyed, undimpled, stylistically-challenged son never left my side after that. I defended him when girls were mean, I allowed him to express his feminine side when he wanted to wear frilly dresses and I kissed and kissed that hard, shiny head.

Then, one day, another little girl came along and Horace was adopted once again. I was a little sad but it was time. I moved from kissing Horace’s bald head to practice-kissing my pillow. Slowly, slowly, I grew up.

I am now 38 years old.

Thirty years since Horace. And now I find myself facing a similar cross-road.

Like my eight year old self, I’m not happy. I don’t like what I see. Not at all. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes as I stare at the spot where the light glares at me from a multitude of bald spots on my own head. I feel that familiar temptation to cry and yell at that Great Xavier Roberts In The Sky that THIS IS NOT FAIR.

Then I look into the brown eyes in the mirror and they stare back at me. I take in the lack of dimples and the emptiness where only memories of braids now reside. And I realise that I love this imperfect woman in the mirror. Unconditionally. She isn’t the prettiest or best-dressed. She has no crowning glory to boast. But I love her regardless. I have to. She’s all I have.

Maybe, when he created a plain, brown-eyed, dimple-free, bald Cabbage Patch boy named Horace Cleeves, Xavier Roberts knew what he was doing after all.

This post was featured at Mamapedia.com

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About Michelle Lewsen

Michelle Lewsen is a copywriter with 18 years’ experience and a few shiny advertising awards. Now, as mum to three highly entertaining and thoroughly demanding little people, she writes to make sense of her life as a stay at home mother.

Her hope is that by sharing her imperfect parenting, struggles with work-life balance and the often laugh-out-loud chaos that her Adult ADHD brings, other imperfect parents can visit theycallmemummy.com to exhale and say, “me too.”

They Call Me Mummy has been honoured with many awards, making her a very proud mama of this blog baby of hers. Most notably, she was honoured as a Voice of the Year by BlogHer in 2013 (“Inspiration” category) and again in 2014 (“Heart” category).

This blog captures her life. Sometimes warm & fuzzy, sometimes shriek-out-loud funny. In her spare time, she's been writing a series of children’s books, which are going to knock your socks off. Your kids are going to adore them, so watch this space.

Oh sweetie- your soft heart and balding head are truly a gift to this world. I’m moved by this post so much. I hated that yarn hair on my Cabbage Patch anyway. Please know that you are beautiful and I’m glad you love the only self you got. We all need to take that lesson to heart.

I knew I liked you. You have your priorities in all the right places. It is not going to be easy to adjust and love yourself no matter what, but you have done it once, you can do it again. You are strong. You are a mom.

Wow Michelle, this is beautiful and heart wrenching. I’m not surprised you had such a big heart when you were a little girl – some things never change. For what it’s worth, when I think of you, I only see your beautiful face and your genuine smile, (and yes, kangaroo balls) but nothing else. Not your clothes. Not your hair. Just you.

Great blog! I had a Horace when I was a kid too. Mine was a bald preemie, that my dad won at the store right before Christmas. He was ugly. He wore blue jeans and a red and white button up shirt. But he was my favorite cpk out of all the ones I had. I did rename him though. I just couldn’t wrap my 7 year old mind around calling my baby Horace lol. So he became Stephen.

There is so much to love in this post. Honestly. From the big-hearted sweet girl you were picking out your baby to your amazing, beautiful grown woman self now–seeing wisdom in creating a Horace … As a woman who loves herself …. For finding the perfect words to make us all look in the mirror with kinder, more loving eyes. Kudos.

I’m so sorry you’re going through this. But damn, lady, if that ain’t the most inspiring story of genuinely empathetic child I’ve ever read. Makes me want to go adopt a Horace.

This won’t help, and I don’t want to minimize any of the powerful emotions you’re experiencing, but two of the most beautiful and powerful women I’ve ever met were bald. One from chemo and one from alopecia. And it never came up because why would it? They were who they were. And they owned every part of their lives that they could control. The rest was brown track suit and ugly shoes.

Thank you for this post. What an amazing juxtaposition. I hope this post brings you peace.

You got me…I didn’t know I was going to find myself holding my breath as I read, wiping away tears but I did. I thought there would be some lesson to learn but not such a big message!
Bravo and thanks for sharing

Wow. So glad Casey sent me here. What started as a sweet childhood memory had me crying by the end. Very lovely story and it was written fabulously. Definitely following you from now on. (and I got a Cabbage Patch Doll under different circumstances and resolved to love her as well. It’s what moms do.)

I’m so glad she sent you, too! Casey is such a superb writer and a stellar woman so her stamp of approval means EVERYTHING. So glad you’re following me Do you have a blog? Please share a link so that I can visit you

Moved to tears! Oh my gosh…. YOU, my dear, are an amazing inspiration!! Thank you for giving me a new perspective, a new view of ME and quote to print out and read every. single. day! You have an incredibly beautiful soul!

My dear woman, you are simply…beautiful and amazing. You can’t help it! You may not have dimples, you may be hair-impaired, but you have honesty, humor, compassion, and a beauty that neither dimples nor hair could improve. I’m a better to person for having met you.

I loved this post, Mish. If it means anything to you, I remember your wedding here in Perth and remember how I wish that I could be half as beautiful as you were on that day. You looked like a princess in your wedding dress, perfect hair and husband who absolutely adored you.
Years later and living life in different circles, I read your posts and what comes glaring back to me is how you live and love life to its fullest and once again I wish I can live my life and love those in it half as much as you do yours. You are inspiring.. Son xx

Well, my dear Mish, you are amazing. I’d like to link to this on my blogs because it took so much courage to write this. Would that be ok with you? It’s one of the most beautiful pieces I’ve ever read. Well done! And since I’ve never seen you, your hair doesn’t matter to me. What matters is your beautiful heart, which I can see from here.

I’m a guy, and as such, picked out footballs and Star Wars figures as you were pouring over the Cabbage Patch Kids on a different aisle. I will say, though, if I had to pick one out, I’d have picked one like you.

You’re a lot of things, from the sounds of your commenters, but to me, you’re a new blog to follow, an engaging storyteller and an inspiration.

I love, love, love your story! I have alopecia as well and there are many days I look in the mirror and struggle to find the girl I know still exists in there. This is by far one of the most touching posts I have read and it speaks volumes about your heart and strength as a person. You are beautiful inside and out and I look forward to reading more of your posts in the future!!

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Welcome to They Call Me Mummy! My hope is that by sharing my less-than-perfect parenting moments, struggles with identity as someone other than The Mother and the often laugh-out-loud chaos that my Adult ADHD brings to my life, They Call Me Mummy can be a place where other imperfect parents can come to exhale and say, "me too."